


The End of the World is Old News

by quillstopher_walken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Being an Asshole, Destiel - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Human Castiel, M/M, Magic, Separations, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 15:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13527477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillstopher_walken/pseuds/quillstopher_walken
Summary: The Apocalypse came and went, leaving Dean with nothing but a whole new set of problems. Cas is still a dick, Balthazar's a nuisance, and, horrifyingly, Dean seems to be growing a conscience.





	1. A (Less Than) Fond Farewell

**April**

“You’re leaving.”

Cas hoists the duffel bag higher onto his shoulder. “Is it that obvious?” 

What a dick. “Just not sure that’s a good idea.” 

“I never said it was. But if there’s other fallen angels out there, we need be the ones to find them.” 

Dean snorts. “Yeah, you’ve sure got a crack team assembled.” 

Cas looks like shit, he’s a mediocre shot and he’s newly sober. His hands still shake, for fuck’s sake. Balthazar drinks like a fish, but at least he’s good with a gun.

“We need to do something, Dean,” Cas snaps. 

The only thing Cas will be doing is dying. There’s no one out there, except for the Croats. But if Cas wants to risk his life for some moronic sense of nobility, who’s Dean to tell him otherwise? 

“Well-” 

“Cassie!” Balthazar calls. “Let’s go.”

Balthazar’s leaning against his motorcycle. His sharp shooting rifle is tucked into his pack, and he’s got another gun in his thigh holster. In the wake of the Apocalypse, Balthazar went from being a total tool to a total badass. 

No wonder Cas is screwing him. 

“Well,” Dean drawls. “Have a safe trip.” He gives Cas a mock salute, shoves his hands into his pockets and walks away. He’s not going to wait around to wave goodbye like some kind of war bride. He’s got work to do. 


	2. Look Who's Coming to Camp

**August**

“Dean!” Risa shouts. “We’ve got company.” 

Dean grabs his gun and bursts out of the cabin. The camp needs a fucking gate. He’s been saying that for years. He passes a kid standing in the middle of the road. “Get into a cabin!” Dean barks. The kid - Jack, maybe - flinches and scrambles to do as he says. 

Dean reaches the cabin closest to the main road and slides into a crouch next to Risa. 

“They’re on foot. Coming right up the road,” Risa mutters. She’s loading her favorite gun, a Henry Classic rifle. “Our lookout counted four. All of em armed. Two shotguns.” 

Shit. The camp’s so far from anything, they’ve been doing perimeter runs only once a day. Tomorrow, they’ll go back to two.

“How much time we got?” Dean asks, checking his Marlin. 

“Lola said they’re two, maybe three minutes out.” 

Chuck skids to a stop behind them. Dean signals Lola, a competent red head, to head into the woods. She nods and motions two others to follow her. They’ll circle around and cut off the group’s retreat if they try to make a run for it. 

If only their numbers weren’t so goddamn short. They lost a man last month to the Croats, and one more last month to a fucking summer flu. And Balthazar and Cas haven’t been seen in months. That leaves them a whole team short. They've gotnine real fighters, and Chuck, whose breathing is so fucking loud Dean might shoot him himself. 

Fucking fantastic. 

Risa cups a hand to her ear. Dean passes the signal, straining to hear. Then, he catches it. Faint soft crunching. Soon, the noise becomes heavy, solid steps. Whoever these people are, they aren’t trying to hide. The foot steps move closer and then, they stop. 

“Hello there!” a deep male voice calls out. “We’re friendlies. And we don’t want any trouble. We’re looking for a Winchester.” 

Dean glances at Risa, whose mouth is drawn in a thin line. She shakes her head. She doesn't recognize the voice. 

“To prove it to you,” the voice continues. “I’m gonna set my gun down real nice. A sign of my good faith. My crew’s armed, but the won’t draw unless needed. So don’t shoot us, now, and we won’t shoot you.” 

There’s sounds of movement- the clack of metal hitting the ground, the rustle of clothing. It could be a diversion, but there’s only four of them. Not much of a raiding party.

“Alright!” Dean shouts. “We’re coming out. Keep your hands where we can see ‘em. All of you.” Risa nods, ready. Dean glances back at Chuck, who tightens his grip on his gun, eyes wide. Dean grits his teeth. Beggars can’t be choosers. 

Dean holds up three fingers.

Three. 

Two.

One

_Zero._

Dean and Risa swing out onto the road, guns at the ready. Dean senses Chuck fall in behind them.

A burly white guy stands in the center of the road, his rifle by his feet. There’s three others flanking him. Two of 'em have old looking handguns, stowed in holsters. 

And the other is holding a a shotgun.

The barrel’s pointed at the ground, but fuck that. 

Risa and Chuck fan out, leaving Dean in the center. He stays about ten feet back, rifle on the tall fellow. 

“The shotgun too,” he orders. “Tell her to put it on the ground.” 

The big guy chuckles slightly. “Brother, you want Sandy to let go of that gun, you’re gonna have to tell her yourself.”

What a shit. 

Dean fires a warning shot at the ground. 

And out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees the girl swing the shotgun up, fast. 

“HOLD,” Dean barks as he hears movement behind him. At the same time the guy yells, "Easy now, Sandy." 

“You come to my camp, you don’t tell me what to do,” Dean growls. Benny doesn't say anything for a second. He's looking at Dean likes he's studying him, and it makes Dean's skin itch.  

“You heard me. Gun on the ground." 

For a moment, nothing happens. 

Benny keeps on looking at Dean, as if he's waiting for something.  He still looks relaxed, but Dean's not fooled. There's a mean looking hatchet on his belt, and his hand happens to be resting right on top of it. If there’s gonna be bloodshed, it’s not gonna be Dean’s people.

She better lower that goddamn gun. 

“Alright,” Benny says, as if reading his mind, and looks over at the girl. She clenches her jaw, but does as he says, and lays the shotgun on the ground.  About fucking time. 

She straightens, and swings her long black braid over her shoulder. Dean can see her face clearly now, and it doesn't surprise him that she’s young. Maybe early twenties. Right around the same age Sam was the last time-

Dean shakes off the thought.

“Now, let’s talk,” Dean says. “Who’d you say you were looking for?” 

“We’re looking for Winchester,” the big guy says. His hand drifts away from the hatchet, and his easy smile slides back onto his face. “I’m Benny. This is Sandy.” He jabs a thumb at shotgun girl. “We’re hoping to do a trade for some food and a roof for a few nights.” 

They’ve probably been on the move for months, ducking through woods and avoiding cities where the Croats are more dense. But that doesn’t make them Dean’s problem. 

“Who told you to come here?” 

“We heard of this place from a a guy named Balthazar. He’s the one who told us to ask for Winchester.” 

Well, that’s fucking fantastic. 

Dean shifts his stance, the guns starting to dig into his shoulder. “What’d this Balthazar look like?”

“British fellow,” Benny frowns and scratches his beard. “Bit of a jackass, actually. He had a scar along his face,” he draws a finger across his left eye, mirroring Balthazar’s scar. “He fancied a sawed off shotgun.” 

“He had another man with him,” the girl, Sandy, Benny called her, adds in a strong, clear voice. “A quiet guy, with brown hair.” 

Benny nods. “Think Balthazar called him something like...Caleb? Or Cesar? Some kind of weird name like that.” 

 Cas. It has to be Cas. 

“You mean Castiel,” Chuck says eagerly. 

Goddamnit. Dean’s told Chuck a hundred times to never volunteer information. 

“Castiel,” Benny rolls the name out. “Yeah, could be. Want to say it was more informal though. Ah. Cassie.” Benny grins. “Called him Cassie.” 

Cas. Not Cassie. 

“They yours?” Sandy says.

Dean ignores her. “They shouldn’t have sent you here. We don’t take strays.” 

“Sure you don’t, brother,” Benny says, half smiling. “But I’m guessing you ain’t gone farther than the nearest city in years. We, on the other hand,” he waves a hand. “Spent some time in the South before cutting up through Kansas. How many states we covered in the last year, Sandy?” 

Sandy is still glowering at Dean. “About five.” 

“That’s right, five states. And it might interest you to know what’s changing out there. So really,” Benny spreads his hands wide, like a preacher on one of those cheesy religious programs. “I’m thinking you might want to reconsider your position.” 

Dean’s camp hasn't been farther than Kansas City in two years. Last time they sent out a scout team, it never came back. They’ve kept to themselves since then, rather than risk loosing gun hands. 

But five states? They would've never made it this far. Even if Balthazar and Cas are apparently still kicking it, they could've gotten this information from Scavengers, or tortured it out of the men.  People just don’t make it this far. They just don’t. 

“Nice try, buddy,” Dean says. “But we don’t fall for Scavenger tricks.” He whistles, two sharp, clear notes, and his people are there, cutting in from the sides, melting out of the trees, guns raised. 

Dean drops his rifle and swings it onto his shoulder. He smirks at Sandy, who looks like she's itching to have that shotgun back in her hand. Too late now. “Take their weapons,” Dean calls out. “And tie ‘em up in the stock room.”


End file.
